Who forgot to pay the rent?
by Joel-Gomes
Summary: Miss Parker's new way of life. Special note: I won't come up with excuses for my long absence. Time and lack of sufficiently good ideas kept me away. Little by little, I'm trying to pick up where I left. Thanks in advance and sorry for being away.
1. PROLOGUE: WHAT AM I GOING TO DO NOW?

**Who Forgot To Pay The Rent?**

By Joel Gomes

Disclaimer: Same old, same old

Author's Notes: Special extra thanks to everyone who reviewed my first fic. My most humble apologies for not replying with a better story. I hope you like this one too.

**_Prologue – What am I going to do now?_**

It was just another normal day at The Centre. That is, if you consider torture, murder, kidnapping, extortion, genetic experiments, yadda yadda yadda, as normal activities. Well, in The Centre they were as normal as normal can be. Most of the people working there had no real idea what The Centre really did, but it wasn't their place to know. Only those on higher places knew the real truth and those who would accidentally bump into something they weren't supposed to know could only expect a death penalty.

The Centre was a world organization that explored people like guinea pigs. Some knew that. Some suspected that. It was a place where evil ruled. A Hell on earth, some people would say. But, despite the terror it inspired, there was one event that brought fear into the hearts of all those who worked there. An event that happened once every month and affected everyone, from the lowest employee to the chairman himself.

Some people knew that The Centre was controlled by The Triumvirate, a group of three of men with their headquarters in South Africa. They were the real power behind The Centre. Or so everyone thought. 

The truth was different than general belief. It was more tenebrous than The Triumvirate and The Centre put together. Forget about surprise visits from members of The Triumvirate. Forget about law enforcement units walking into The Centre and taking everyone into custody. Those were unexpected events and the unexpected could not be predicted. Sure, there were always procedures to follow, in case something unusual happened, but not on a situation like this. This... moment was expected, but, that wasn't a good thing. No matter how much they would try to deny it, no matter how much they would pray for it to end, it was useless. It would always happen and there was nothing they could about it.

It was about two p.m. when the doorbell rang. Immediately the doors were opened. Everyone looked to the man at the door and instantly recognized his face. They quickly got out from his sight and hid wherever there was a hiding place available. 

The man walked through the lobby and went straight to the receptionist desk. He looked to a very frightened secretary and said, "I'm here to collect the rent."

She swallowed her breath and tried hard to seem calm "I believe the rent has already been paid."

"It would be, if all your bank accounts weren't empty."

"You'll have to discuss that with Mr. Raines."

"Fine. Tell him to come down here so that we can clear this out."

"Certainly, sir."

She grabbed the phone and dialed to Mr. Raines' office. From the other side came a recording message. Dance music on the background, with the distinguished wheezing voice of Mr. Raines doing the singing.

"Hey! I'm not here!

But I'll back! Don't you fear!

I'll come back and we'll sing all day.

And then I'll dissect your brain."

BIP!

"Mr. Raines, this is Sarah, from reception. Mr. Stevenson is here to see you. He wants you to come down here as soon as you can." Sarah put the phone down and turned to Mr. Stevenson. "He's not there."

"What about Mr. Lyle? Isn't he the second in command?"

"I'll call him."

"You do that."

Sarah grabbed the phone "You can take a seat, if you want to."

"I prefer to stand, thank you."

She dialed the extension to Mr. Lyle's office. He answered, with his mouth full.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Lyle, it's Sarah from reception. Mr. Stevenson is here." 

Mr. Lyle swallowed. "What does he want?"

"He says he's here to collect the rent."

"I thought the rent was already paid."

"That's not what he says, Mr. Lyle. According to him, all the bank accounts are empty."

"What d'you mean 'empty'?! There were more than a hundred million dollars on those accounts!!! Where the hell did all the money go?"

"That I don't know, Mr. Lyle."

"Have you talked to Mr. Raines about this?"

"I tried to call his office, but he wasn't there."

"OK. I'll see what I can do. Tell Mr. Stevenson to come up."

"He says he wants you to come down."

"Great! Now I have to interrupt lunch! I hate doing that! Okay. Tell him I'll be down there as soon as I can." 

Sarah heard Mr. Lyle hanging up and put the phone receiver down. "Mr. Lyle will be here shortly." She said to Mr. Stevenson.

"Tell him to hurry. I'm beginning to get tired of all this waiting."

"I'm sure that won't be necessary." She smiled "Are you sure you don't want to sit?"

"Yes. I am."

~*~

A few minutes later, Mr. Lyle showed up, accompanied by Mr. Raines. They shook hands.

"What can we do for you, Mr. Stevenson?" Mr. Lyle asked with a plastic smile on his face.

"You can start by paying what you owe me."

"There has to be some sort of mistake, Mr. Stevenson. The Centre always pays its bills on time." Mr. Raines said.

"Well, I sure would like to know how is that possible with all your bank accounts empty."

Mr. Raines turned angrily to Mr. Lyle "Why didn't you tell me about this?"

"I..." Lyle swallowed "forgot."

"You forgot?! One hundred and twenty five million dollars and eighty three" He took a small paper from his breast pocket, read it and then put the paper back in the pocket "eighty four cents gone and you forget to mention it?" He was quiet for a few seconds, then something occurred to him "Lyle, tell me something. Have you been ordering mail order brides again?"

"No..."

"Tell me truth."

"I may have ordered a few." He said timidly, and then added "But they were all very cheap!"

Mr. Raines took a deep breath and began to pull Lyle's ear. "Didn't I give you a piggy bank for you to buy your things?"

"Yes!"

"And how many times have I told you not to order any brides without consulting me? How many? Tell me!!!"

Mr. Lyle started to cry. "I'm sorry! It's just... I feel so alone sometimes. I only want..."

Mr. Raines let go Mr. Lyle's ear and pulled him to a tight hug. "That's alright, son. I understand."

"Look," Mr. Stevenson interrupted "I don't give a damn about your brides. All I want is my money. Now, do you have it or not?"

"How much is it?" Mr. Raines asked.

Mr. Stevenson took a small paper from his breast pocket and handed it to Mr. Raines. 

Mr. Raines read the paper and wheezed, "What the hell is this?"

"That is what you owe me. This month's rent. Without interests."

"Without interests?"

Mr. Lyle took a quick peak at the paper and whistled.

"The rent is not supposed to be so high!" Mr. Raines wheezed.

"And Blue Cove is not supposed to exist. It's a fictitious land and I owe it, along with everything in it. You wanna have your secret complex in my property, that's fine with me, just as long as you pay what I tell you to pay. If not, you can always pack up your stuff and move to Gotham City. It's your choice."

"We can't afford that kind of expense with our bank accounts empty."

"What're you talking about? We can't make any expense with our bank accounts empty."

"Shut up, Lyle!"

"I don't have the time to wait, gentlemen. If you don't have the money, I have no choice but to throw you all out."

"You can't be serious!"

"You want to test me, Mr. Raines? I strongly advise you not to, or I promise you'll regret your actions shortly afterwards."

"Lyle?"

"Yes, dad?"

"Go tell everyone to clean their desks. We're leaving."

"What do I tell them?"

"Tell them that they are all fired."

Mr. Lyle thought about this for a second before asking "Does that mean that I have to kill all of them?"

"Not this time, son."

Suddenly, Mr. Lyle remembered something "Wait! What about The Triumvirate? Can't we borrow some money from them?"

Mr. Raines smiled. "Yes... We-"

"Can't." Mr. Stevenson concluded.

"Why not?"

"I owe their complex too. Their accounts are empty as well."

"How can that be?" Mr. Lyle questioned.

"If I found out whoever did this, I'm gonna eat him alive!"

"Can I help?"

"It was just an expression, Lyle."

"Oh... Sorry."

"Now, hurry up and go tell everyone the news."

"Sure. I'm just going to finish lunch and then I'll do it."

"You can finish your lunch later."

"But I'm starving!"

"I said you can finish your lunch... later! Now move!"

Mr. Lyle walked away.

Mr. Raines wheezed, "I wonder who's responsible for this..."

~*~

Yes, who was the man responsible for this? The question floated inside Mr. Lyle and Mr. Raines' brain and the answer could probably be found with this man. Jarod. The man being constantly chased across the country since his escape from The Centre after thirty years imprisoned. A pure genius, most people called him, but, despite his strong intellect, he wasn't the one responsible for The Centre's fall.

In fact, after spending years running, it was only now that he had finally come up with a perfect plan to stop The Centre once and for all. Too late now, you could say. It was a very simple plan. So simple that he felt ashamed for not thinking about it earlier. 

He was driving his car, listening to some music. The Centre was only a few miles away.

'Almost there.' He thought.

After a while, a car rode by. He recognized the driver. Miss Parker. His friend, his huntress, his enemy, his... whatever.

'That's strange. She usually doesn't leave her office before seven p.m.' He continued driving, then he remembered something else 'Was she smiling?!'

~*~

He arrived to The Centre moments later and was surprised with what he saw. Everyone was leaving The Centre. He got out of his car and scanned the crowd for any know face. He spotted Sydney and walked to him.

"Sydney!"

"Jarod!"

"What is going on here? Where is everyone going?"

"The Centre is shutting down."

"What? How?"

"Apparently someone forgot to pay the rent."

"That's just great! Now that I had come up with a plan to..."

Suddenly, Jarod heard a voice coming from behind him.

"You!"

Jarod recognized the voice and turned around to see Mr. Raines, with his former henchman Willie right next to him.

"You did this!" he turned to Willie "Catch him, Willie!"

"Forget it, bone bag. You're not my boss anymore. Remember?"

Mr. Raines lost all his... dignity, and started jumping up and down, shrieking like a little girl. "I want my Centre back! I want it! I want it!"

Jarod turned to Sydney, who was shaking his head. They spotted Broots and walked to him.

"What happened to Miss Parker?" Jarod asked. "I saw her on my way here."

"She said she was going to take a few weeks off." Sydney responded.

"That's good. She deserves some rest."

"So..." Broots began "I guess this is it."

"Seems to be."

"There's no more it to it than this."

Yes, The Centre was no more. After years of evil doings, The Centre's reign of terror had finally come to an end. Everyone was now free from its claws, but there was one question left to answer. Not the identity of the person responsible for the fall, but something much more urgent. A common thought that suddenly appeared in the head's of all those connected to The Centre.

'What am I going to do now?'

End prologue

This is only the beginning. You can expect eighteen more chapters and an epilogue, where the identity of the man responsible for The Centre fall will be revealed. Till the, keep on reading! I apologize in advance, because I fear that the time between each posting can be very long. And sorry for whatever bad spelling I have. 

Last, but definitely, not the least, a very special thanks to Melissa for being my beta-reader. Thanks!

Joel Gomes


	2. Author's Note

Author's note  
  
I just want to apologize for all those of you who've read my story and felt anxious to see how it would end. I'm not putting that story apart, it's just that, right now, I have other important projects to work at.  
  
I'm looking for a job and that takes most of my time. Besides, I recently finished writing a tv series and I'm also finishing some research to write a screenplay and a second novel. I have been discussing with some of my friends about writing a play, a few comics, a stand-up show and, possibly, another tv series.  
  
As you can see, it's not that I'm giving up the story. In fact, I already have the layout for all the chapters so it's just a matter of sitting and writing.  
  
I hope your patience is worth it.  
  
Joel Gomes 


	3. LYLE: ORIENTAL SPECIALTIES

**_I – Lyle: Oriental Specialties_**

Author's note: Please forgive my bad spelling but I wanted to post this before the Pretender Awards end.

When I first started working here I thought to myself 'This is gonna be a piece of cake.' It wasn't that long before I discovered how wrong I was.

It had been a month since The Centre's shutdown and so far this was the first job I was able to get. Having a father (or fathers) as the Chairman of a worldwide secret company can ease a lot one's concern regarding the future. I myself was comfortably standing at the number 2 spot, calmly waiting for the bonebag known as my father (my third one, I should mention) to either drop or fall from the stairs. Accidentally of course; I could never kill my own father. Not personally, I mean, I'd have to hire someone.

Anyway, the shutting down of The Centre opened up a whole new world of possibilities for me to use. And enjoy. And that is exactly the right word to describe it: enjoyment. I enjoyed having to schedule to keep up, no Jarods to pursuit, no remarks from Miss Parker. I enjoyed everything. I even enjoyed the fact that now I would have to be my own financial supporter. It was interesting at first, then it got annoying and, finally, desperating.

But, as everyone says, nothing ever lasts forever. And one day I was having a dinner at a Chinese restaurant when all of a sudden there it was. The perfect job for me.

The restaurant was located a few blocks away from my house. It was a nice place, a family place. The food was excellent, the environment relaxing, and the waitresses… Oh my, the waitresses.

I was about to have a nice dinner, reading a panflet about dental hygiene while waiting for my meal when, out of nowhere, a riot began. I saw the cook walking out of the kitchen with the owner of restaurant yelling at him.

I couldn't get a word of what they said; my sister is the one that speaks Japanese. Besides, they were probably yelling at each other in Chinese. So, unless she could speak Chinese (which I think she does), I can only what they're saying. Of course, I must not forget the most important thing: the chances of my sister helping me are very slim. Very slim indeed.

However, being unable to comprehend their exact words, did not elude me from understanding the basic meaning of the whole conversation: either something had happened and the cook was leaving, or he was being escorted out, because of something he did. But what?

Now, I'm not the gossip type. I value my privacy too much and, as a result of that, I try to maintain a low profile as low as I can. However, it only took a second before I realized something. I was in for a long, long wait until they found themselves a new cook. That is, unless I did something about it. And that's what I did.

I got up and went straight to the manager. He was a mid-sized man, with broad shoulders and dark brown dyed hair. I could tell the hair was dyed because... Nevermind that, I just know, okay? Blame my sister if you want. Or my mother, may she rest in peace. After all, "baldness is inherited from the mother's side, Jerry." Nice TV show.

Back to the point.

I looked at him, the manager, straight in the eyes and said:

"Where's my food?"

No time for niceties. Like I always say, you must always have a tight grip. Otherwise, you'll be the court's jester. And he, in response to my question, proceeded to open his registry book and checked something.

"Name?"

"Lyle."

He started flipping through the pages and then found what he was looking for. "Here it is. Mr. Lyle, table five." He paused for a bit, perhaps for emphasising, before continuing "Soon." And then closed the book with a plastered smile on his lips.

"What you mean 'soon'?" I saw the cook walking out of here."

"Yes, yes. Long-Su. He left?"

"I know he left. That's what I said. What about my found?"

"Soon."

Now, if this was a nonsense stories like any other, or a nonsense story per se, I could let this discussion go on for at least three pages, but I was not in the mood so I put an end to it.

"Nevermind that, I'll get it myself."

I left him there and went to the kitchen. I wasn't willing to wait that much, but when I entered the kitchen I was surprised with what I saw. It was like a cyclone had passed by, creating a hybrid made of havoc and mayhem and food. Lots of food. Not a good comparison, but it's as good as it can get.

"Fuck!" was all I could tell. It took me awhile to get to my senses but, once I did so, I realized what I had to do and quickly left the kitchen to get someone to help me clean up that mess. (Gee! Talking about long thoughts.)

I snatched one of the waitresses and brought her to the kitchen. I must say that, at first, she wasn't in the mood of coming. She babbled something. It could be something like "It's not my job." Or "My mother told me never to go with strangers.". Or she could have been just insulting me. But, of course I wouldn't know either way. Like I said earlier, I don't understand Chinese. But, when it comes to get the work done, I always have something to use, something I call the universal translator. Or, in other terms, my 9mm. Standard Centre use. Not that I use it that much nowadays. Only in cases like this one. Fortunately, they don't happen very often.

So, I took my gun out and pointed it at her head. She stopped babbling. Good. And began shrieking. Not good. Not good at all. The customers started to panic. Something was happening. But what? Oh, wait! Maybe it was me. Strangely as it may sound, I forgot that I'm no longer the terrible Mr. Lyle, Vice-Chairman of the powerful The Centre; I'm just... Mr. Lyle from table five.

I also realized that, no matter how much I tried, she wouldn't come to the kitchen with me. I only had one option left. If she wouldn't obey anyone except the manager, I'd have to become someone superior to the manager: the owner.

With that in mind I went outside and found the owner still discussing with the cook. I decided to end the conversation there by putting a bullet on the owner's head. Actually, I fired three shots but I only hit one. Too much wine I guess. I asked the cook if he could do me the favour of finishing my meal.

He refused to do it at first but after a brief argument he came to his senses and realized how wrong he was. Perhaps it was that bullet on his kneecap or the words "I'll eat your daughter alive if you don't go finish my meal now." Whatever it was, it worked. And, from what I discovered later, he didn't have a daughter. I guess he didn't remember that at the time.

Having a gun pointed to his head sure helped to clear this thoughts. I drove him to the kitchen and told him to stay put. Then, I went to the manager and informed him of the recent events.

"Do you know who I am?"

He was still in shock from what had happened previously. Pale as a corpse, yet still breathing. All the customers had left the scene, but he stood there. Like the captain of a sinking ship. I asked again.

"Do you know who I am?"

He checked the registry book. Even though he knew exactly who I was, it was an habit he found difficult to get rid off.

"You're Mr. Lyle, table five."

"Wrong. I'm Mr. Lyle, owner of this restaurant and your new boss. Do you understand what that means?"

"Yes sir, Mr. Lyle."

"Good. Then tell someone to go to the kitchen and help long Long Su to prepare my meal. And no poisons. I'm allergic to death. Understand?"

"Yes sir, Mr. Lyle."

"Excellent. Now go."

He told two waitresses to go to the kitchen. It was in Chinese so I could only suppose that's what he said. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that half an hour later I was granted with a delicious stewed lamb with orange. I always liked orange.

Now, two months later, after handling some paperwork and buying the place, I've assumed the management of the restaurant. Of course I had to kill a few people in order to accelerate the process but, all things considered, it worked out just fine.

I thought of a few attractions to help bring new customers. Two of my former co-workers, namely my sister's and my father's (the wrinkled one) were hired two weeks after I took this job; one as a comedian, the other as a blues singer and guitar player. Fridays were comedy nights, Saturdays were called the blue evenings.

Tonight was Friday and the show was about to begin. I had just finished enjoying my meal with the also delicious company of one of my waitresses – her name was Sue, a very good looking American of Chinese ascendance – when I noticed the presence of two ex-workers from The Centre – my sister's collaborators Sydney and Broots. They didn't see me. Good It's better this way.

I enjoyed the show very much. I even laughed a few times (not that I understood the jokes) and applauded at the end. After that, I took a short coffee and a scotch and left with Sue.

"Where are we going?"

"My place. Do you like it?"

"Sounds good."

It will taste even better, I thought. The meal was good. The dessert promised to be even better.

Tbc


	4. MR RAINES: 'PUT ON SOME GAS, BALDIE'

**_II – MR. RAINES: "PUT ON SOME GAS, BALDIE!"_**

If anyone had asked me ten years ago where I would be today, my answer would probably (hopefully) be "Running The Centre."

Ten years past that time, the truth is slightly different. Today, not only am I not running The Centre, now there isn't even a Centre to be run.

So much for my pets... It was all taken away from me. One of the most powerful companies in the whole world is now an abandoned building. And all because of one man.

_Damn him! Whoever he is..._

Three weeks past that event, and having my bank accounts all dried out (I only realize now how expensive these oxygen tanks can be) I was forced to look for a job.

It took me a while but I did it – I'm working at a gas station. Hey, I've been dealing with gas for quite some time now. I know the terrain. Besides, it's not such a bad job. I get well paid (already paid the rent at the motel where I'm staying) and I get to choose my own shift.

The only trouble is that it's a very lonely job. I miss having someone to dissect. Oh well, might as well forget it.

Tonight is my tenth night since I begin working here. It's 4 am and apart from me, there's no one else around. Which is good, in a way. My supervisor told me that Saturday nights are usually the most dangerous nights.

"A lot of robberies, some murders. And quite a bit of violence." He said.

I wipe a newborn tear with a scarf. This brings back memories of my kindergarten years.

Inside my cabin I feel like a king and the music playing reinforces that statement. "Queen – God Save The Queen."

Actually, I would prefer if the music was called "God Save The King". Maybe I should had brought my Freddie Mercury clone. He would make a new version.

Yet, I know it wouldn't have worked. I had Jarod sim it and he told me the song would only work if the song was called "God Save The Queen". So I asked him:

"Why?"

And then he said:

"Because the song is going to be dedicated to the queen of England."

"Why don't they dedicate it to the king of France?"

"Because they're British and France doesn't have a king."

I decided to stop the discussion at that point and electrocuted Jarod for a while. It always made me feel better. That and performing lobotomies on babies.

Suddenly I get drawn back to reality. The powerful headlights tell me I have a customer. I grab my tank and exit the cabin.

"Good evening sir, how may I be of assistance?"

(Man! If anyone knew the trouble I had to memorize this kind of speech. Luckily, I had acting lessons when I was in High School. I also had ballet lessons but I'm not going to say a word about it.)

"I need some gas." He says with a most arrogant tone.

I like it.

"And you're gonna get me some, baldie."

Now, that I don't like.

For a moment I consider saying "I don't think I like your tone of voice."

If I had my previous job, that's what I would say (even though the odds of something like this happening if I was the chairman of The Centre are very slim). Unfortunately, my supervisor always told me I should be patient with customer. So instead of what I meant to say, I say:

"Certainly, sir."

I begin to fill up his tank.

"How much will it be, sir?"

"All of it. I want it full."

And so I do.

Once the tank is full I turn to him to tell how much it is. It is then that he decides to draw a gun and points it at me.

"I have a better idea. You give your money and I'll let you live?"

"I'm sorry but I'm not allowed to do that, sir. My supervisor would not appreciate it"

"Screw your supervisor. If you don't give me the money, I'm the one who's gonna screw you."

I feel like I am at a dead end. There is no one else around to call. What can I do?

Then we hear a sound. A car approaching. We both look. It is a police car. I think to myself _Damn! They found me!_

The door opens and – this is absolutely true – Robocop exits the vehicle and asks me in his (its?) mechanical voice.

"Dead or alive you're... Sorry, what story is this?"

"Who forgot to pay the rent?, chapter two." I answer.

"Oh, sorry. Wrong story." He's about to return to his car when he turns to us again and asks "Which is the fastest way to Detroit?"

"Follow the yellow brick road." Someone says.

We all look around but don't see anyone. Nevertheless, Robocop returns to the car and drives away.

"Where was I? The robber asks me.

"You were considering the chance of engaging in sexual intercourse with me."

"No, I wasn't."

"But you said..."

"I mean it metaphorically!" He snapped.

"You don't need to get upset. It was only a misunderstanding."

"You know what? Forget it, I'm off. This getting too silly."

He walks to his bike and starts the engine.

"You can't leave! The story isn't over yet!"

THE END

"There. There's your end. Happy now?"

"Fine." I hand him a card. "Here's your bonus card."

"Thanks." He puts the card on his pocket. "Same time next week?" He asks.

"I'll be here."


	5. MR PARKER: LITTLE BY LITTLE

**_III – MR. PARKER: LITTLE BY LITTLE_**

"That will be 18.99." The cashier said, handing the lady her bag of groceries.

The lady opened her purse and pulled out twenty dollars.

"Here's twenty. Keep the change."

"Thank you mam." He said, trying very hard to hide his satisfaction.

Things had definitely changed. Ever since his return to Blue Cove this had been his most generous tip so far. He had been surprised when he had arrived to reassume his position and, instead, of The Centre, he found a supermarket.

Having no job, and nowhere else to go, he had no choice but to volunteer for a cashier job. Luckily they accepted and here he was.

He checked his watch. Nearly five minutes before his lunch break.

_Soon._ He thought.

Although the line was empty, his boss had given every employee very specific orders regarding schedules. It was one rule he didn't mind following to heart, him being a punctual man himself. He didn't like the uniform though. The grey reminded him too much of his former labrats. All of them were out there now without no one to hold the leash.

His post was the one closest to the main entrance. It was a privilege to be there. He could see who came, who went. He was such a lucky man.

_I am such a lucky man._

Hey! I've already said that!

_Sorry._

That's okay.

He checked his watch again. Four minutes left. He heard the door swishing open and then He came in. His heart increased its pounding.

_No. Tell me it's not him._

His return to Blue Cove, his employment as a cashier. All that was part of his plan. Which had now been compromised by the arrival of that man.

He turned his man, hoping he hadn't seen him. He wasn't that lucky. Feeling someone tapping his shoulder, he turned and feigned surprise.

"Hi." He said.

"Hey! I knew it was you!" Jarod said.

"How did you know that?" Mr. Parker asked. (There's no point in keeping it a secret anymore, is there?)

"I saw your car outside. Who else would have a bumper sticker car saying 'I jumped off an airplane with a box containing two scrolls and all I got was this stupid sticker'?"

"You caught me." He said.

"Tell me something, was it a standard sticker or…?"

"Almost standard. The original sticker read 'I jumped off an airplane with a box containing three scrolls and all I got was this stupid sticker'. I had to order a new one, just because of that."

"That's a shame. Well, I have some shopping to do. I'll see you later."

"Sure thing."

Jarod walked away with his shopping cart and went to the Candy Zone (I've never been to an American supermarket. I don't know if there's a Candy Zone or not. Besides, Blue Cove doesn't even exist. So quit complaining.)

Mr. Parker watched as Jarod filled his shopping cart with pez-dispensers.

_Is that all he eats?_ He wondered. _I'm surprised he's not fat. Maybe it's genetic._ He scolded himself. _Stop it, Parker! He can endanger everything you've worked so hard to achieve it the past three months. You need to get rid of him before he realizes what you're doing._

Mr. Parker was a patient man, and a practical one as well. He knew he could get The Centre back. All he needed was getting enough money to pay the rent and he would back to his office at The Tower.

How sad he was when he first arrived and saw The Tower turned to a restaurant area. The saddest part was that they didn't have Mexican. And worse, all the sublevels had been turned into a giant parking facility.

He opened his personal box and counted the money. He had almost eleven dollars. 10.97 to be accurate. Little by little, tip by tip, he was slowly getting the necessary funds.

_Please, don't let him know._

He looked to where Jarod was, but Jarod was no longer there.

_Where did he go?_

He took a look around. He was alone.

_Maybe it was a dream._

Then, he looked up and saw the surveillance camera pointing at him. He began to sweat. His personal was still open.

_The money! I can't let them see the money!_

He was motioning to close the box when he felt a strong hand holding his grip. He turned. It was Jarod and his boss was with him.

"Hold it right there, Parker." His boss said.

"I didn't do anything!"

"Oh yeah? What's all this, then?" Jarod asked, referring to the money.

"It's my tips."

"Pretty generous tips, don't you think?"

"I think he's been embezzling."

"No, I haven't."

"Yes, I think so too."

"I'm telling you, I haven't done anything illegal."

Jarod produced a small digital tape from his pocket.

"This tape proves you stole two cents."

Mr. Parker's eyes gleamed with fury. _He had been so close._

"Parker, you're fired!"

"This is all your fault, Jarod! You and your stupid pretends."

"This is not a pretend. I'm the new Security Chief around here. And my name isn't Jarod, it's Ebenezer. I was just pretending to be him so I could approach you easier. Jarod will have his own at chapter eight, nine if count the prologue."

The boss snapped his fingers and two guards, former sweepers, came and grabbed Mr. Parker by his shoulders and dragged him out. He shook hands with his new Security Chief.

Ebenezer smiled. He was a very lucky man.


	6. MR WHITE: FOR POSTERITY

IV – MR. WHITE: FOR POSTERITY

In nowadays being a finder isn't what it used to be anymore. After returning from a two weeks vacation in the Caiman Islands I was caught off guard once I realized I was out of a job. My former employer, Mr. Lyle, had opened up a Chinese restaurant – its slogan '_We serve Chinese'_ has more than meets the eye – and my contract on the Russell was no longer effective.

That had left me without a profitable source of income, but not without the means to obtain another form of revenue. All I had to do was go into the right places and it would pay off. The Centre had many secrets and there were hundreds of newspapers interested in knowing what went on its deepest bowels.

I knew their secrets. Perhaps not all of them, but enough to receive a lot of cash if I decided to blow the whistle. Although I was at a lower rank than Cox, I had access to things he didn't. We had come from South Africa, we were both assigned to work under Lyle's supervision. The only difference between us was that I had been sent to Blue Cove because of my skills. Cox had been sent there because he had screwed up. Maybe that's why he killed Mutumbo.

Three years. That's all it took of me to find Jarod's family. I still remember the last time I met him, the look in his eyes when I threw the envelope containing his sister's address into the incinerator. How I wished that I had a camera with me back then. I have nothing personal against Jarod – just doing my job – but I know a good picture when I see one. The same way a good journalist knows a good story when he hears one.

Can't say I was surprised when the first journalist contacted me for an interview, but I have to say I was very surprised when I found out that the journalist was Jarod's sister, Emily. This was no coincidence. Of that I was sure. What I wasn't so sure about was what would happen after I told her my story.

--º--

We met at a coffee shop. It felt awkward to be with her in such a social situation. She took her tape recorder out of her purse and put it on the table.

"I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all."

"Good."

She took a small pad and a pen from her purse and then we waited for the waitress to bring us some coffee. I wasn't sure whether she knew or not who I really was, so I decided to go for some "casual" conversation.

"So... How long have you been a reporter?"

"Almost eight years."

"Do you like it?"

"I think so. It's a bit stressful. It keeps me moving constantly."

"Yeah. I know what you mean."

"What's your connection to The Centre?"

"I was a file clerk."

She nodded and the look in her eyes told me she had bought it. I was safe from exposure as long as I kept my activities discreet.

The waitress came and brought us two cups of coffee. There was something about her, but I couldn't tell what it was. A young girl passed by. She had a tattoo on her left arm – some obscene drawing that was catching everyone's attention.

"That's disgusting."

"Yours is probably better."

"What did you say?"

I hadn't realized I had spoken out loud. Damn!

"I said she's probably eager... for attention, you know?"

"Right..."

We took a sip. Emily pressed the red button and the tape began to roll.

"This is Emily Russell, for the Dailyzine, the day is 10th February 2003 and I'm interviewing Larry, a former employee from the corporation known as The Centre." She looked me in the eye. Is it okay if I call you Larry?"

"Sure. Larry is as good as any other alias."

"Good. Tell me Larry, how did you begin to work at The Centre?"

"The Centre hired my services six years ago. At the time they needed someone to manage their storage file. A friend of mine gave me the tip and I decided to apply for the job."

"Do you have a degree in Public Administration?"

"Yes, I have. I finished my course in 1978. Top of my class."

"Interesting. You were working at a storage file and you had contact with all sorts of information. Wasn't that boring sometimes?"

"Not really. Like you said, I had access to all sorts of information and I had to read most of the files in order to file them properly. Besides I had other hobbies to entertain myself with."

"Such as?"

"Photographs. Every once in a while I like to grab my camera and just go hunting."

"I see. About those files, what can you tell me about them?"

"Everything. What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

I pointed to the tape recorder. "This is going to take a while."

"Don't worry," she replied, "I have enough tapes."

I took another sip. She imitated me and I began talking.

"The Centre was what you call a think-tank. Its research is sold worldwide. Their most ambitious and profitable project ever was something called The Pretender Project. Its planning was initiated in 1958, although the first subject wasn't brought in until 1963…"

--º--

Emily listened attentively while I (supposedly) told her everything I knew. Occasionally I would stop to take a sip. At those times she would take a sip too or scribble something on her pad.

"...when I came back from my vacations The Centre had been turned into a supermarket. And that's it."

"Really? That's all you have to tell me?"

"Were you listening for the past two hours?"

"Look, Jarod and Kyle are my brothers, so I already know most of what you told me. And what I didn't know isn't enough to pay you the amount you asked for."

"You must joking!"

"I'm not. Unless you tell me more, this information will be considered irrelevant."

She became silent. I had no intention of telling her anything else – I had already told her everything I could without compromising myself – but I had to tell her something, otherwise this would be just a waste of time.

"Well?"

I considered my options. I had to choose very carefully what I was about to say. And once I decided, I began.

"My real name is Mr. White. I was part of a covert team assigned to do specific projects."

"What sort of projects?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that. What I can tell you is that those assignments came directly from The Triumvirate."

"That's the consortium that owned The Centre, right?"

"They didn't own, they were more like a sponsor. The Triumvirate funded most of The Centre's official research. All The Centre had to do was keep up with the deadlines."

"Enough talking. FBI, you're under arrest."

I felt the barrel of a gun against the back of my skull.

"Don't even think about turning your head."

I didn't have to turn back to know who it was – it was the waitress. Emily smiled. She sure had me fooled. I had deliberately signed my own death certificate. But I couldn't let that go so easily. I wouldn't.

"I knew you weren't a waitress right from the start."

"Is that so? What give it away?"

"You have your bullet proof vest over your uniform."

That caught her off guard, I thought.

"Damn! Now I'm gonna have to shoot you."

I heard the trigger being squeezed and then my head exploded into bits of meat and blood. Hints of blood hit Emily's silk shirt and she got up from her chair furiously.

"Look what you've done!"

"He started it!"

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

First author's intervention: All right! Stop it, you two."

"She started it."

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

"Did not!"

Second author's intervention: That's enough! (sigh) See what you've done? I was trying to write something serious for once and you had to ruin it, didn't you?

"It wasn't my fault."

Third author's intervention: I don't care whose fault it was. You blew it.

"Hey! You can't talk to me like that. I am an FBI Agent!"

Fourth author's intervention: You don't exist. And neither does she.

"Oh yeah? In that case why are you talking to us?"

Fifth author's intervention: Damn! I forgot to take my medication!

"See? I told you he was crazy."

Six author's intervention: I'm not crazy! I have a condition…

"That's what they all say."

THE END


	7. BROOTS: NORMALITY IS SUCH A STRANGE THIN

**_V – BROOTS: NORMALITY IS SUCH A STRANGE THING_**

I never thought THE day would. I mean, I dreamed about it and everything; even told Syd in one of our sessions (but I don't think he was paying that much attention then). I mean, c'mon, The Centre was finally closed and all it took was someone not paying the rent. I always assumed they have enough money for that with all those experiments and contracts and stuff. Guess not.

So here, I am, about to start my second week at my new job. I get less money, work more hours, but at least I don't expect to be killed if I decide to resigne. That was a nice adjustement – retirement no longer being synonym to death.

I work as a program designer. It's ok, I guess. When you spend years trying to keep up with the most intelligent man in the world, some things tend to feel just a little boring.

Not that I miss running from one corner of the country to the other. I'm talking strictly about the computer business. Jarod was a true challenge and I don't expect to find anyone like him any time soon.

Oh, by the way, before I forget, since we're on the subject of computers, let me just say this: I have never, EVER, downloaded porn. At least, not on a Centre computer. That was someone else, not me. I think it was Mr. Raines – that afternoon I spent under his desk several years ago while he… Anyway, I'm not gonna be the one pointing the finger. And even if I did, what's the point of doing it now?

I go to work as usual and start working on my current assignment. I'm taking enough time to be considered good, but no more than that. The last thing I want is giving them good reasons to increase my workload. This is kindergarten stuff, actually. At least it is from my personal point of view, although I admit it: I would never be this good if it weren't for The Centre and Jarod. Being one step before him was not an easy task, so I guess it's ok if choose to minimize my skills in order to keep a low profile. I have a quiet life now and I would like to keep it that way, thank you very much.

The day ends eventually. No surprise there. It's Friday night – I got the whole weekend ahead of me, plus there's a holiday on Monday – and I decide to go to bar and get a drink. I think there's a new place nearby. Comedy club kind of thing, with a Chinese restaurant attached. Or maybe it's the other way around. I don't know who thought of that concept, really. Why not putting a drugstore and a mail station together?

What an idiot that guy must be…

-----/-----

Me and my big mouth. I was so sure of myself when I decided to come to this place but now that I know that Lyle's the owner I'm starting to have second thoughts. I know WHAT Lyle eats and the fact that he's running a restaurant – Chinese, on top of all things – leaves me just a little bit uncomfortable.

The place is full, I have to admit it. Lyle must be a good manager. Either that or he threatened to kill them if they went some place else. He didn't threat me, but I've known Lyle for a long time. He doesn't have to.

But, anyway, I was considering going somewhere else, when he spotted me near the door. Before I could turn and leave he was already by my side with his hand on my shoulder.

"I thought it was you!" Lyle said, smiling. "How are you?"

"F…fine, Mr. Lyle."

"Don't mister me. I am your humble servant."

"You're my what?"

"_Me casa es su casa._"

"No, thank you. I don't wanna go back there."

"Whatever you say, sir. Can I get you a table?"

"Hum… yes, yes, sure."

"I have just the perfect place for you. It's near the window. Will that be satisfactory?"

"Well… ok… I guess."

"Will you stop babbling and start talking like a man!"

I froze immediately. The Lyle I knew was back. What was going to happen? What sordid reaction did I cause with my immature behaviour?

"I'm sorry, sir."

What?

"I lost my temper. Terribly sorry. I shall go and lock myself in the shed."

"That's fine, really. You don't have to do that."

"Of course, I do. I was rude and I deserve the correct punishment."

"Well, if you must. But can you take me to my table first?"

"Of course. Follow me."

I follow Lyle across the restaurant to a table near the window. I notice that there is a man sitting there. It's Sydney.

"I believe you two know each other."

"Hello, Broots."

"Hi, Syd." I sit down.

"We have only two choices available", said Lyle. "Numbers 69 and 13. What will it be?"

"Let me see." I grab the menu and check what the meals are. It doesn't take long before I make up my mind. "I think I'm in for the 69."

"You sure. It's very spicy."

"I love spicy food."

"You sure?"

"Yes, I am. I wanna try it. I never tried it before."

"So be it." Lyle grabs the menu. "And to drink?"

"A beer, please."

Lyle nods and walks away. Pretty excited, I'll tell ya. My first 69.

"How have you been doing, Broots?"

"Me? Fine, just fine. I'm working as a program designer. It's really boring, y'know? After six years on the pursuit of Jorod, always trying to be one step behind him, things now are just—

"Broots!"

"What?"

"It was only a rethorical question."

"Oh. Sorry about that."

"No problem."

"What about you? What have you been doing?"

"I started writing psychology themed books for infants."

"You mean, children?"

"Some use that term, yes."

"What's it about?"

"Well, I pick up random fairytales and analyse what influence they may wield on modern society via the currently existing stimuli. You see—

"Syd!"

"I get it."

Before we could proceed, Lyle came with our meals and drinks.

"Enjoy your meals", he said before leaving.

"What's your 69?" Sydney asked.

"Kung Pao Spicy Chicken. What number is yours?"

"23. Sesame Beef."

"That's funny."

"Is that peanuts over there?"

"Yeah. Want some?"

"Thanks, but no thanks."

"The more, the better."

We eat our meals and continue with a normal chit chat. Normal things. 'You know who I saw the other day?' sort of thing. Never thought I could ever enjoy a moment like this, but then again I never thought I'd live to hear Lyle say to me _you're my humble servant_.

"Lyle told me one of our former colleagues is going to perform here tonight."

"Did he say who?"

"No. He only told me it's a stand-up comedy act."

"On a comedy club… What are the odds?"

"Shall we go?"

-----/-----

Twenty minutes later we're sitting at the table nearest to the stage. The lights go out and the curtain opens. I simply cannot believe who the comedian is.


	8. SYDNEY: PSYCHOLOGY 101

_**VI – SYDNEY: PSYCHOLOGY 101**_

I'm 72 years old and it is only by now that I begin to feel at least fulfilled with what I'm doing. For many years, research and psychology were always two of my favorite subjects, not to mention writing and tutoring of infants. Despite the consequences, I have to say I enjoyed, still do as a matter of fact, those things.

Forty years I spent at The Centre, always waiting for a chance to do something different, always thinking of that as something unreachable. But, if there's one thing I learned in all my years of living is that 'impossible' can be a highly overestimated term. The Centre being shut down because someone forgot to pay the rent is a good example to that.

One of the advantages of working for The Centre was the income. They paid well. Every employee sold his soul to work there, so they had to compensate somehow. And when you retired or felt like you deserved a raise, they had a good way to make you change your mind.

Right now I have enough money on my bank account to spend the last years of my life enjoying the fruits of my labor. However, I know how much pain my labor has caused and, though not for income reasons, I have a professional and social, not to mention moral, obligation of doing something to redeem myself.

Jarod was my protégé for thirty years. His life was stolen from the very beginning and I was one of the key figures to that devious plot. He's out there trying to make a difference, it is only logical that I try to do the same. And what exactly, you wonder, did I decide to do?

I decide to write psychology books for infants.

For those of you who were too lazy to read the previous chapter, here's how it works: I pick up random fairytales and analyze what influence they may wield on modern society via the currently existing stimuli. Take 'Little Red Cap' – also known as 'Little Red Riding Hood' –, for example. In modern versions of the tale, the little girl is portrayed as being afraid of the 'big bad wolf'. It derives a bit from the original version but sets a new thought pattern which, supported with a serious case of distressed paranoia, takes us to the assumption that the child has had a severe traumatic experience with a savage dog of considerable dimensions.

That's the basic aspect but I think you get the picture.

Also, there's one other thing I do now – being a contest on Quiz-Shows. It is, actually, quite enjoyable. I get all the answers right. I know all the secrets and lies, remember? Besides, they're fun to play and every time I win, which is to say every time I play, I give the money to a charity institution.

My sense of humor is somehow more developed. I know how to take a good joke and I know how to tell one, but I still have the habit – bad one, they say – of analyzing the contents of every joke I hear. I try to help it but I can't. _You're no fun anymore_, they tell me and perhaps they're right.

Lyle opened up a Chinese restaurant, Raines is working at a gas station, Mr. Parker got a job as a cashier in the supermarket where The Centre used to be. All is different now and though this chapter is even less funny than the one dedicated to Mr. White at least I know how many psychiatrists it takes to change a light bulb.


	9. COX: NO PILLS WITHOUT PRESCRIPTION

_**VII – Mr. Cox: Something to ease the pain**_

Pain is liberating. Once you learn how to support it, you'll learn to control and then there will be no limits to what you can accomplish.

I had that sort of power when I worked at The Centre. My background as a medical doctor – Chief-Surgeon in Nairobi Hospital until I was arrested for performing experiments on pregnant women – matched the Centre's interests.

Werner Krieg was the one responsible for my release. Came to pay me a visit, although I'm still a bit confused about that, since most of the visitors came in for free.

Anyway, at first, I thought he was my aunt from Germany, but then I remembered her beard wasn't that short.

"We need your services, doctor Cox," he said.

"Listen, I heard that kind of talk before around here. You're not getting lucky with me."

"We know about your experiments on pregnant women."

"So? Everyone knows that. I wouldn't be here if it weren't public."

"Does your stupidity equal your skills?"

"People say I'm very skilful, yes."

My real life began at that moment. The Centre rescued me from prison and took me to The Triumvirate headquarters where I received a job as Head of the Genetics Department. Climbing the stairs of power was not a difficult task for a man of my fibber. Of course, I had to make sacrifices along the way, like giving up my ballet lessons. It was a loss for the world of art, but a benefit for the world of science. Especially if it involved scientific experiments on human guinea pigs.

Lucky for me, those sacrifices paid off.

Unlucky for me, it has all come to an end.

The Centre and The Triumvirate were out of business and I was forced to look for a job.

After two weeks looking for ads in the newspapers I found something good for me – a pharmacist vacancy.

I went to an interview and after making clear that I would extract his eyes with my hands unless he didn't give me the job, the owner was quite happy to accept me.

"Only one condition," he said "you'll have to wear a tag with your full name printed on it."

"Can't we stick simply to 'Mr. Cox'?"

"No. It's part of the policy. Full name or no job."

I insisted. But he was firm in his decision, even after I pulled one of his eyes out. I had no choice, but to accept it.

I don't like my name. People make fun of it.

Edgar W. Cox. The 'W' stands for Wheeny and I have killed everyone who laughed at it.

My job requirements didn't differ much from what I did at The Centre. One thing was different, though. This time, I had to be… nice to people. Mind you, I'm not rude; matter of fact, I consider myself a well-educated man, but to demonstrate genuine sympathy to every disgusting slob that comes to get its prescription is pushing the limits a bit too far. Not a night goes by that I don't cry and apologize to my ancestors for betraying their memory. They were polite, but apathetic and cold-blooded. I know it was the circumstances that lead me to this situation, but I can't help to feel ashamed.

----/-----

Saturday was usually a quiet day. It was after lunch time and, even though I hadn't take a nap, I felt pretty relaxed. So far, it was a quiet day. Only a couple of customers to attend. People either are healthy or decided that curing a cold isn't as important as avoiding me. I was okay with it.

However, that moment of peacefulness was soon coming to an end. I was thinking about how good it would be to fill the wrong prescription to a customer. I often thought about doing it and never got the nerve to do it. Not because of remorse or regret, but because I had a job to keep. I have to say I am a bit disappointed about this professional class' sense of humour.

Suddenly, the bell rang announcing a new customer. I pasted my fake smile and prepared myself to attend this… person. He was in his early thirties. His face was familiar. I knew that man. But from where?

"Hello, Dr. Cox," he said. You work here now?"

No, I like to be behind the counter occasionally.

"Do I know you?"

"I used to work at The Centre. I was guarding your office that time when Jarod came in through the vents and redecorated it."

"Yes, you did a good job that time," Cox replied sarcastically. "What will it be, then?"

"Don't you wanna talk about the old times, doc?"

Doc! You son of a—

"I can't right now."

"That's a shame. Hey! You look taller."

"It's this step." I wanna kill you so much. "How can I help you?"

"I've been having stomach aches since last night. I think it was that Chinese food. Lyle may be a good manager, but as a chef, he's a total failure. I knew I should have said no when he said he was going to personally assist the confection of my meal."

Serves you right, bonehead.

Then, he noticed the name tag and things simply collapsed.

"Wheeny? That's your name?"

And he began laughing. I almost lost my nerve, but I managed to keep cool and return a smile. A real smile.

"I've got what you need."

I went to a cabinet and took out a box of tablets. Some very special tablets.

"This will take care of your stomach aches."

"It will end them for good?"

"It sure will."

"Gee! Thanks, Wheeny!"

"My pleasure."

He paid and left.

(Nothing more to say about this situation. As the author, I have the right to not describe every single detail. You've all been to a drugstore, you know how the thing works. Plus, as the author I'm also entitled to write these stupid notes that add nothing to the main plot.)

----/-----

The next Monday, when I arrived at the store, I had some people waiting for me. Apparently, my former colleague had met his doctor during the weekend and showed the tablets I'd given him. The doctor didn't like my choice and my boss wasn't happy about it either.

"What do you have to say in your defence, Cox?"

"He said he was feeling stomach aches. That takes care of it."

"It also would take care of his life," the doctor said. "I analyzed one of this pills and they're not approved by the FDA."

"Maybe you should have analyze another pill."

"I did. But the point is, they're not legal."

"Not yet."

"One of these pills can cause a cardiac arrest on a person suffering from stomach aches. Were you aware of this?"

"I better. I made them myself."

"You knew this would cause a cardiac arrest on my patient, didn't you?"

"Where are you getting at?"

"I'm saying you deliberately gave these pills to my patient."

"Yes, and then he paid and left. End of story."

"Not end of story. It could have got him killed."

"Look, he complained about stomach aches. If he had taken them as he was supposed to, would he continue to feel those aches?"

"If he had taken them, he would have died."

"You're avoiding the issue here."

"You tried to kill him. Admit it!"

"I did what I thought was best. I can't be concerned with every single aspect."

"Cox?"

"Yes, Mr. Peterson?"

"You're fired."


	10. JAROD: PRETENDING TO PRETEND

VIII – JAROD: PRETENDING TO PRETEND

Finally! Here's my story. I have to tell you guys something. I'm very disappointed. I am. I mean, I'm the main character on this show (supposedly), everything revolves around me and suddenly I'm cast out to… this. Eight stories before mine. Eight! For a main character – the main character is more like it – it's a sudden turn off.

Look, I read the other stories. I enjoyed most of them, they were funny, unusual, but they were all about secondary characters. Miss Parker and I, we're the main ones. Hero and villain, man and woman, lovers, nemesis. Come on!

I wonder if this happened because I told once that eight is my favorite number. Could it be? If so, I'm glad I lied for, in fact, my favorite number is 1000. I'm really glad I lied. Imagine it: writing nine hundred and ninety nine stories before mine. They would have to create new characters. And that would happen only after they write a story about every sweeper, cleaner and janitor at The Centre.

I know I sound a little grumpy – first time I use that word, I think – but maybe I'm not being fair. After all, I was promised a good story. Maybe it was worth the wait. Maybe.

Well, for starters, since I can do anything, what would be the perfect job for me now that I no longer have The Centre constantly chasing me?

Insurance salesman?

No. Instead of The Centre, I would have an entire country chasing me. Something else.

Body guard?

No, I'm too friendly for that.

What I need is something that fits with my personality. Hence, I need to ask myself this?

What do you like?

Pez, ice cream, candy.

Something in pastry, maybe?

Better not. Probably would eat the entire stock. I still remember that time I pretended to be an ice-cream salesman. Fortunately, I used some money from The Centre to pay my debt.

Toying with Miss Parker, stealing from The Centre, ridiculing Lyle… Oh, wait a minute! Pretending…

That's it! I like to pretend!

Now, what kind of job should I get?

If only there was a job where I could pretend to be someone else… Maybe there is. There are lots of jobs out there that I don't know of.

Damn! I'm so stupid!

Actor! I'm gonna be an actor! I already know everything about pretending, all I need to do now is going to a casting and find myself the perfect role for my capacities.

ºººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº

"Number 77!"

That's me.

"Over here."

"Hurry up, then. We haven't got all day."

The impatient one was someone 'with a double digit IQ and a triple digit income'. I followed him to an office where three men sat behind a wood desk; director, producer and casting director. Actually, there was only one guy there but he had a multiple personality disorder.

(Hey! Quick question: if you suffer from multiple personality disorder, how many forms you have to fill when applying for a job? I wish I could ask Dannie/Enid that.)

"Good afternoon, Mr.…"

"You can call me Jarod."

"Jarod. Do you have any experience acting?"

"Yes, I do."

"In what capacity?"

"I can pretend."

"Oh no, another one."

"Excuse me?"

"Thank you for coming. Next!"

"Wait a minute! I told you I can pretend."

"That's the thing. I don't want someone who can pretend, I want someone who can act."

"Isn't it the same thing?"

"No."

"Sorry, I'm confused here."

"You don't look confused."

I took the hint and faked confusion.

"What about now?"

"Hmmm… Are you pretending or are you acting?"

"Acting."

"You're talented."

"Thank you."

"You're hired."

"Oh, great! So, what's the role?"

"We're gonna do a TV show about a man who can be anything he wants to be. He's captured as a child and is raised by a secret company who uses his talents to make lots and lots of money. Then one day he discovers this—"

"Escapes the company and they assign a retrieval team leaded by his childhood friend and lover to bring him back?"

"No. He asks for a better pay check."

"Oh… And what role will I be playing?"

"You'll be the geek who wears stupid shirts."

"The geek…?"

"You don't like it?"

"No… I love it!"

I'm getting good at this acting thing.

"Good. We begin shooting next Monday. Ask Judith at reception for a gun, I mean, a script and be here at 9 am sharp."

"Will do."

"By the way, that idea of a childhood lover is not bad at all; if you know anyone who's good for the part, let me know, will ya?"

"Don't worry."

ºººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº

So, that's it, folks. I'm gonna do a show and I'm gonna play Broots. I hope this won't be the highlight of my new acting career. Either way, it was fun playing this story, though I didn't have to use my pretender abilities, it was fun enough being here. I hope you've enjoyed it. 'Till next time…


	11. SAM: ONE MAN STAND

IX – SAM: ONE MAN STAND

The lights in the room were low; a spotlight was aimed at the rather small stage. The people on the tables were anxious to see the show. They had paid good money to be there and –like every night for the last couple of weeks – the house was full.

Lyle played the role of MC and introduced the evening's performer. "Ladies and gentleman, Sam Atlee." He stepped aside and joined the audience at the welcoming clap as Sam entered the stage.

Sam scanned the crowd, noticed the dumbstruck faces of Sydney and Broots amongst them and nodded to his former colleagues. They nodded back purely as a reflex. Sam took a step forward and grabbed the mike.

"Hey there, everyone. I see we have a full house tonight. Again. I think I better talk to my manager about charging tickets. Don't get me wrong, don't get me wrong, I like to come; I love to come here, you are all wonderful people and I always have a good time when I'm with you. But! and here's the problem: I'm getting just a little bit… tired of being here for free.

"The people are nice, can't complain about them. Mr. Lyle is a wonderful man, at least now he is, always gives me his leftovers. Of course, knowing the man like I do, I usually go 'No thank you, Mr. Lyle. I'm starting a new diet now. Doctor's orders: no eastern meats señor Atlee.'

"And now, what you all have been waiting for: the news!

"A few weeks ago, a secret company known as The Centre was shut-down. It was reported on every newspaper, TV journal, hairdressing-saloon, etc., etc., etc.

"I have to tell you, I don't understand the deal with those 'secret' companies. Am I wrong or does everyone knows they exist? What kind of secrecy is that? If they mean 'secret' as something few people are aware of, perhaps 'secret' is not the best word; maybe you ought to call it 'poorly advertised'.

"Secret companies are not secret. For one thing, the people who work there know they exist. The people who design the buildings where the companies operate know they exist; the people who build the buildings where the companies operate know they exist.

"And now you're thinking 'they are a secret to people outside the company.'

"People outside the company. Hmmm. Okay. That means everyone who's not employed there, right? So my question to you is: how do they hire them?

"You can't hire someone to work at a secret company without divulging the company's existence. Unless, they do it like this:

'Well, Mr. Harris, we have read your résumé and I have to say we are very interested in hiring you for a job at our company.'

'That's very nice. But I… don't know the company's name.'

'I'm afraid I'm not allowed to share that information.'

'Okay… So, where's the company located?'

'You're not clear to know that yet.'

'Can I least know what will my job consist of?'

'No, you can't. In fact, if you mention this conversation to anyone, including me, I will kill you.'

'I promise I won't tell.'

"Then a big smile. 'Welcome to the company!' And both men shake hands.

"It's all about advertising. Most of these companies have a bad reputation but, like everything else in life, not every secret company has evil purposes behind their actions. Some have noble or at least not evil purposes to achieve. They're just ridiculous from a sane man's point of view. Like building an airfield for the return of the cosmic gods or gathering a million people across the globe to jump all together at the same place, at the same time, to save the world from global warming; or something even crazier than that.

"Unfortunately, most of them have criminal intents to guide their actions. Which is really not that bad, if you think about it.

"The truth is, and this may shock some of you, crime is necessary. What would the cops do without crimes to solve? They barely do anything some times and we don't exactly have a low crime rate, do we?

"No. What we need to do is to consider who would have less to gain if crime happened to be completely removed from society. Think about this headline 'Family slaughtered in cold blood. Police has no clues'. Who are the victims?

"The family? The family is dead. That means more job vacancies, less pensions; perhaps a new car to the undersecretary's daughter, who knows?

"The police? They can't find the person responsible and until they do they have something to keep themselves occupied.

"Which is good. If we pay taxes to finance the police forces, then we better start shooting some people here and there and get our money's worth something. Know what I mean?

"I know, I know. Some people may consider this 'poor taste'. Well, I understand their point of view. I do. They're stupid. Nothing wrong with that. And I don't mean 'stupid' as an offence. Far from that. It's just, that it's easier for them to condone an alternative rather than proposing an idea of their own.

"That's the problem with people today. Everyone has complaints, but very few have ideas or solutions. And I admit some of my ideas may be stupid and ineffective but, at least I'm not afraid to tell them. I will let others decide for themselves instead of self-censuring and not utter a word.

"You know where stupidity could be very useful? Court sessions. Imagine the defendant's lawyer. One of the most common defenses used is what is known as 'temporary insanity'.

'Your honor, my client was not himself at the time.' Still can't understand how this works if an actor shoots a colleague during a rehearsal. Who committed the crime? The actor or the character?

"Anyway, back to my idea. We have temporary insanity. What I propose is 'temporary stupidity'.

"Something like this:

'Your honor, my client was stupid.'

And the judge would go:

'What about now, is he still stupid?'

'No, now he's just dumb.'

'Okay, he can go home then.'

"Stupid idea, I know. But it's mine. I can express it. Nowadays, I can say what's on my mind, anywhere and anytime I want. Well, not exactly. There are some places where language is still under watch. Movies, music, etc. You know what I'm talking about, don't you? That 'Parental Advisory' seal. 'Explicit Lyrics'. They do it to prevent minors from being in contact with that sort of contents.

"You remember Adam and Eve? Adam and Eve lived in Paradise and God told them 'Do not eat the apple!' What did they do? They ate the apple.

"It's human nature. Kids will watch violent movies and the only reason is a stupid sticker that is put on every time someone says 'Crap!'.

"So I wonder; if the idea is to warn people about bad, deceiving, immoral language, why not put on a sign every time we see a politician speaking on the television? Or every time we open a newspaper and read something about the government's agreement with an oil company. Anything that makes us wonder about their real intentions would have the seal: 'Political Advisory – Implicit Crap'!

"That's all for tonight, folks! Thank you so much for coming!"

Sam bowed a few times and stepped away from the stage.


	12. WILLY: REPENT!

_**X – WILLY: REPENT!**_

I'm a different man now. In the old days I was mean, I was evil; a merciless lackey always ready to perform every devious task Mr. Raines told me to. But like it happens to every man of good judgment, repent came to me. I, my fellow reader, saw the light. It touched me. It saved me.

Remembering those odd years at The Centre, when Mr. Raines suddenly turned into the town's Sheppard, I feel kind of awkward now that I'm acting the exact same way. With one exception: I am the best singer at the choir. Of course I had to beat everybody up to get to the top, but when it comes to please God, I don't joke around. The Lord acts in mysterious ways and I'm just a pawn in His game.

Back to Mr. Raines (but just for a little while; this is supposed to be a good-humored story after all), his sudden revelation was not as sudden as some people actually believed – those henceforward referred as 'idiots!' – but a well thought up plan to make The Triumvirate believe that Mr. Raines was a good guy. I, on the other hand, am not faking my feelings, my beliefs. I WAS touched by the light. Or, at least, blinded by it.

It happened on the fortieth day after the shutting down of The Centre. The preceding five and a half weeks had been spent in the pursuit of a job. Unfortunately, the bastard was too fast and I always lost track of it. (Just a lame joke, sorry. And I shouldn't have said 'bastard' either. My most sincere apologies.) Five and a half weeks searching and so far I got nothing. Anyway, I have to admit, being an ex-criminal who died of a strange heart attack while serving life at a maximum security prison a few days before joining The Centre can be an obstacle hard to get by. Not the kind of thing you would see on a normal résumé, but not the most odd either.

At the time I had not yet found my faith, my salvation; I was just a presumed dead man, with no job, no money, no papers, living inside an abandoned car. (To tell you the truth, the owner was inside the trunk but, unless he came back from the dead, the chances of him claiming his vehicle as stolen were practically none.) A man can lose his hope of a better life if fate doesn't show up from time to time with a good announcement. Often it comes in the form of an angel. In my case, it came in the form of a fat officer.

As it began to happen, I tried to establish a parallel between that moment and something already reported on sacred texts. There wasn't. Even better. It would make this moment more special.

The fat officer hit me with his flashlight and knocked on the window glass with his baton.

(Let me just say this before I proceed, the term 'fat' is not meant to offend or diminish his abilities; it's just to distinguish this officer from any other officers that might come along during this story.)

Back to the fat officer, he asked me to exit the car. I did as asked and as soon as I was out he hit in the gut with his baton.

"What the hell was that for!"

"Shut up! I remember you… Willy."

He knows my name? But how? Who the hell is this guy? Probably some guard at the prison I was being held. Yeah, that's got to be it. I'll ask him.

But before I had a chance, he said, "You always stole my lunch. Now it's payback time."

Lunch? Is it possible? Could it really be…?

"Fat Frankie? Is that you?"

"Don't call me that! I hate it when people call me that!"

"But you ARE fat and your name IS Frank."

"Yes, not 'Frankie'."

"So that's it. You don't like being called—"

"No, I don't. And if you say it again I will put a bullet through your head."

This time I had to laugh. "You don't have the guts to do that."

"You think?"

"I know."

"I guess you can, right?"

"I know I can."

"Prove it." He drew his gun and handed it over. "Shoot me. If you think you're—"

BANG!

"See? What did I tell you? Who's the man?"

No answer. Some people just can't admit to anything.

It was then that I experienced my unexpected moment of revelation. I had killed a person and I felt bad about it. (Is this what they call regrets?) How do I know this? Will, for starters, I'm using the term 'person' instead of 'something'. And finally, let's see… there's not really that much to tell.

Anyway, after experiencing these feelings, I did what any normal person would do on a situation like this: I went to the druggist to buy some regret medicine.

Quickly I discovered that such thing did not exist so I decided on another course of action. I went to my brother's house and asked for guidance. He was shocked to see me (apparently I had forgotten to tell him about my false death) but after some talking he took me under his wing and I joined his band as a back singer.

My brother is the best piano player I've ever met. In fact, my brother is the only piano player I've ever met. So maybe he's not the best. Maybe he's just good.

Standard.

Tolerable.

Alright, he sucks.

He is so untalented. No match for my voicing skills.

And I got tired soon of being at the back.

I'm a spotlight man. I belong at the front.

So I said goodbye. I thanked him for his help and joined a gospel choir. My brother may be a crappy piano player but he guided me through some rough times. Yes. He showed me a purpose and that purpose is to sing. Sing! Sing!

I'm ready to go on my own now. I'm ready to spread the word. To bring repent and guidance to those who sin. A singing avenging angel with a flaming sword to bring judgment upon the unfaithful ones.

Repent!

Repent!

Or I will kick your ass.

NEXT ON THE LIST: MISS PARKER


	13. MS PARKER: I CALL THIS MY MOMENT OF ZEN

**XI - MISS PARKER**

**I CALL THIS MY MOMENT OF ZEN**

Rule number one on my book of rules: don't try to be funny

Rule number two: don't try to be cute

Rule number three: never forget rules number one and two

For the sake of both our mental healthes (though I'm not very sure about mine after so many years at The Centre) I'll try to get right to the point. One thing I've always hated is wasting time. Like Jarod or Sydney would say, 'a good deed doesn't go unnoticed'. Ah! As if… But, anyway, I decided to give Fate a chance and, also, to give you an opportunity to return this favour.

Oh, my God! I just realized something! I'm stalling like Broots! Ok, let's not panic. I'll get to the point, right now. Promise.

You want to know what happened in my life after the shutdown of The Centre, don't you? I figured you would; otherwise, why would you be reading this? Well, being on a top position in The Centre's hierarchy – I had to chase a pretender, other employees had to chase rats and bugs – I got a good pay-check at the end of each month, which means I had (still have, as a matter of fact) a very nice bank account.

I wanted to get as far away from as I possibly could and go to a place where I could truly be myself: Milwake.

Gotcha! Never expected to hear me say this, did you? I also bet you'd never expected to hear me say 'gotcha'. There's a first time for everything, folks. And I like first things, first times. I like trying to revive them. That's why I returned to Japan.

Some of you remember Tommy Tanaka. He was my first lover, son of a Yakuza leader. (Check out Season 2, episode Past Sim, if you don't remember him.) Things had gone well the first time, but after what happened the last time he saw me, I wasn't sure if he was going to be too happy to see me. Because of that I spent three months in Japan without giving him so much as a phone call.

Not that it bothered me. My goal was to relax and find a new path. Not to get reacquainted with a former lover. I spent three months meditating, relaxing, expelling the ghosts from my mind. I had the peace of mind to finally put the past aside and so I did. I was ready to go back and start a new life as a karate instructor.

What better way to relax then teaching other's how to kick ass? (Granted, it would save me some punching bags.) Let's face it. When you know martial arts, you become more relaxed when troubles arrive. So, it's not a question of looking for trouble, but more like being prepared for it.

Don't look for a funny meaning in all of this. There isn't one.

And so I returned to Blue Cove, did some checking, signed some papers, threatened some people (becoming the main dish at Lyle's restaurant, that kind of thing) and a few weeks later I was opening my dojo.

To be honest with you, I wasn't expecting many students on the first day, so it didn't surprise me when only one person signed up for class. What did surprise me was who it was.

"I come here to learn."

He spoke fluently, with such a clarity of thought; others who hadn't known him before, would not be surprised of hearing him speaking like that. But not me.

"Angelo?"

"Surprised?"

I could not help stating the obvious.

"You're… talking."

He didn't look surprised.

"So are you."

"But you didn't… I don't understand."

Oh, my God, I hate this!

"That's why you were number eight and I was number three on the Pretender Project Ranking."

Wow! That was a ranking? Damn it! Wait until I get my hands on my father! Whoever he is. Ok, Parker, let's put that aside for now.

"I thought you had a… problem… with your voice."

"There's nothing wrong with my voice, or else I'd be a mute. I did have a slight speech impediment."

That I couldn't let go by unnoticed.

"Slight? You used to speak like a retard."

He grinned. Oh! How I hate it when they grin.

"A retard that still managed to outscore you."

That was it.

"Look. Let's get one thing straight here. This is my story. I make the funny remarks, not you. Are we clear?"

"Yes, princess."

"And by the way, I don't think the writer is doing a good job with your character. You sound like Sydney and Jarod put together on a blender."

"Did Lyle tell you that one?"

"No, that was MY funny remark."

"It was a very nice one. A bit gory, but funny nonetheless."

"Thank you." I smiled. "Lucky for you I'm in a good mood or you'd be eating dust by now."

"No doubt it would be better than Broots' cookings."

"I'll let that one pass. For now."

THE END

"Feel free to pop on my story later on, if you want to."

"Thanks Angelo, I will."


End file.
